


lending light to the sun

by en passant (corinthian)



Category: Granblue Fantasy (Video Game)
Genre: is this romance we just dont know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-12
Updated: 2017-03-12
Packaged: 2018-10-03 14:44:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10249079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/corinthian/pseuds/en%20passant
Summary: — said about people who are explaining what is already perfectly clear, in other words, an unnecessary elaboration





	

`unnecessary  
— not needed, synonyms: unwanted, undesired, dispensable`

“What’s beyond that?” It’s the first question he asks — different from the offers, the pleasant statements, the mirroring of whatever Lucifer had said first — they’re the first words that tumble out of his mouth immediately as his eyes look to the window. Beyond the window of the research laboratory, beyond the sky he could see through the barred glass or maybe even beyond the beyond.

It isn’t a question that Lucifer has an easy answer to. Unfocused, ambiguous, something just as intriguing as the constant progression that life made (overcoming, evolving, changing, becoming something better and stronger). Isn’t even just ‘that’ as difficult to define as the question was to answer?

There isn’t, actually, any purpose to curiosity. (It is a great improvement to silence, to inaction, to discovering that the origin of many angels — archangels, other living beings — was nothingness.)

“Hm?” So Lucifer’s reply is noncommittal. 

His — Sandalphon, who has a name and a face, and a personality but no purpose — frowns. And he does as he always does when he feels that there is something he shouldn’t say, something Lucifer may disagree with or withhold on him. He drops the subject, sets his shoulders and stands as tall as he can. It is somewhat like looking in a mirror, something that someone else had once commented on, offhand, laughingly — it seems he takes after you. (Uncommented on, always, is how Lucifer’s shoulders never slope forward and when Sandalphon is relaxed he tends to lean, roll his shoulders forward, and carry himself quite differently from Lucifer.)

“Never mind.” His jaw sets. “What are you planning to do today?” Another question. Different from quiet expectation. More closed than, let’s work together again today. It is, Lucifer thinks, a statement of doubt even though it’s phrased like a question. 

“Going to speak with an old friend.” Change is inevitable, evolution is a positive occurrence that sets the path for the future. But something isn’t in the right place, a fragment that’s slowly falling out of the container. The feeling only intensifies when Sandalphon openly meets his intended plans with rejection.

“I see.” His lips flatten, his posture changes again — not a mirror of Lucifer’s but not the same rolling of the shoulders he’s used to seeing in Sandalphon either. Instead, Sandalphon steps closer, just by a pace, but it’s close enough for Lucifer to see his expression more clearly. His eyes a little wider than they were before, glassy and his expression, “I’ll see you later.” Nothing in his words was a threat or were upset to the letter, but in his tone was something awful.

* * *

`replacement  
— the action or process of replacing someone or something, synonym: renewal`

In a dream, he wears wings. But they don’t give him a sense of purpose, instead they weigh on his shoulders. They’re hooked to his skin with wire and pins and tear at his skin. He bleeds, locked in the dark, while he can hear people on the other side of the door. He can hear Lucifer, on the other side of the door. In this dream the wings are his own, he made them by peeling off patches of his own skin, creating frames with his own bones, put his entire self into them.

Look at me now. (Torn apart for your eyes alone.) (Something greater than you could ever imagine.)

In a dream, Lucifer’s back is open to him an expanse of red and pale flesh. He sinks his fingertips down into the blood and muscle, knuckle by knuckle reaching deeper and deeper inside. Lucifer looks over his shoulder, ever calm and ever perfect, simply says: Who are you?

In this dream, they fight. And he wins, he grasps Lucifer by the back of the head, where the skull means spine and digs his fingertips in but none of the words he wants to say will come. Instead he only keeps repeating, where did you go, where did you go, where did you go. Why did you leave me behind. He break’s Lucifer’s face against a hard rock wall, muffled wet cracking shaking through him. He can’t say what he really wants to say, so he destroys. Feather by feather, bone by bone. Then there’s nothing left but him ripping off his own fingernails, scrabbling at his own bloody skin, still unsatisfied and alone.

In this dream, Lucifer wins. And for the first time in countless years, touches him, briefly — thumb to cheeks, brushing back bangs, an unspoken: it’s all right.

* * *

`solus  
— alone or unaccompanied, not to be confused with solace.`

(For a brief period of time,

the age of discovery for man is heralded by travel. By crossing oceans and discovering land, discovering that the world didn’t end with what could be seen, end with the plateau of the horizon. The age of discovery for them was much smaller and took place when the precipice had already begun to crumble.

It’s only through distrust and anxiety that he first does it — reaches out as they pass each other, to catch Lucifer’s fingertips in his own. It isn’t even a proper handhold, just the smallest contact. It’s a moment that lasts too long in his memory, fingers sliding across the palm of Lucifer’s fingerless gloves, ending with the skin to skin contact and then empty air.

Then, after hours (days?) of waiting another meeting in the corner of the laboratory, just behind the furthest workbench. He leaned, let their shoulders rest together, found it all too transient when Lucifer leans back — to get a better look at his face, probably, and even though Lucifer smiles, the small bit of body warmth is gone.

Late in their shared time, sitting on the floor beneath the window. He had said, even, sit back to back with me, it’ll be more comfortable and Lucifer had obliged. The tables and chairs had been cleared away for an earlier gathering of some kind — Sandalphon had not been invited, but Lucifer stayed after to share what had happened. Nothing exciting. Everything routine. People talking of what they were going to do in the future, what they were going to build, how they were going to shape the world.

“Prosperity, productivity, peace. They’re things the world will need.” Lucifer said. Sandalphon didn’t have a response. “On a grand scale, it matters so much. I have wondered, what it would mean on a much smaller one.” He continued.

They both thought, but didn’t share with each other, what does it mean to bring peace and prosperity to just one person.

* * *

`resumption  
— the action of beginning something again`

He wakes up alone. The sky above is a brilliant blue — he can almost see through it, to what might exist beyond the sky ceiling. Even though his gut told him that nothing is behind it, part of him still wishes to believe in it. The sand is warm beneath his back, the wind pleasant and soft.

“You’re awake again.”

But that voice cuts through everything. It’s authoritative, nostalgic and makes him feel lonely just hearing it. So he shuts his eyes, gathers thousands of years of bitterness to reply.

“Is this what you had in mind for me? Another place to be locked away.”

“Is that what this looks like to you…?”

The worst part is, Lucifer’s tone sounds truly questioning. As if the answer has simply escaped him. He’s too honest to be cruel and too honest to not be cruel all at once.

“What else could it be?”

He doesn’t say it — but he’s waiting for it. To see Lucifer’s shoulders, briefly, and then the wings, and then the empty space left behind by him. Instead Lucifer shifts closer, knees dragging through the sand. He looks almost uncharacteristically clumsy, since Sandalphon still hasn’t gotten up, leaning down. It’s ridiculous.

“I have had much time to think. On what happened, on what will happen and on us.” Lucifer’s brows pull together slightly, mostly obscured by his bangs. “Or rather, you and me.”

“Was there really ever ‘us’?” Sandalphon demands.

“I had thought so. It was far more comfortable to know you were there than the years that came after. You could say, I have never been so lonely either.” It’s bold and cutting. A simple statement that comes evenly. (Sitting apart from the world, guiding it, protecting it from afar. Isn’t that also a kind of exile.)

Sandalphon sits up then, reaches out with both hands for something to hold onto — shoulder, clothes, neck — and his fingers find Lucifer’s hands, raised to catch his. There are so many things he wants to say, words clattering against the back of his teeth and forcing something hot and burning behind his eyes.

Instead, he cries.

He cries while he rages. He grips at Lucifer’s hands as tightly as he can, and the only words that come out are — why, why are you here, why won’t you hate me. The rest of the words get buried in his tears. Lucifer stays silent through it, but he eases Sandalphon’s grip. He moves his hands down to Sandalphon’s elbows, and then shoulders, pulling him into a hug in slow motion.

“I have one request of you, if you can find it in yourself to lend me your help again.”

There’s no way to refuse that, is there. “I won’t do anything you’re offering out of pity. I won’t be cast aside by you ever again!” He can’t be a shadow or a tagalong. There are only two options for him — satisfaction in oblivion or true recognition.

“I never pitied you. Now, Sandalphon — will you stand by my side?”

He can’t help but to laugh a little — hiccup wetly and raise his hands to bury his face in them. They’re words he wanted to hear years ago. They’re words that he heard only in his mind, in imaginary conversations that had meaning then. It’s Sandalphon who pulls back, sits on his heels and finds Lucifer’s eyes.

“Do you need me? Even this version of me — I won’t just follow you around. I want to be seen as who I am, as someone who is of value to you. I want you to care about what I’ve done. Is this your forgiveness? Just sweeping everything — everything that I am under the rug?! Be angry with me! Punish me! Don’t just accept it as if it never happened!”

“And do you think that you alone are in blame?” Lucifer meets his gaze, as immovable and impressive as ever. But the sharpness in his expression softens. “I considered myself your friend, companion and advocate and yet passed your suffering by so easily.”

They could argue more. There’s more to be said. But none of the words will fill the chasm the same way that Lucifer’s request does. He’s unsure if he hates himself more for easily buckling under such ambiguous, placating sounding words, or because it’s still (always will be) himself to blame.

“For supreme primarch you’re blind and foolish.”

“I’ll be counting on you.”

* * *

`redemption  
— the action of saving or being saved`


End file.
